Mrs. Dalloway

“What are they looking at?” said Clarissa Dalloway to the maid who
opened her door.

The hall of the house was cool as a vault. Mrs. Dalloway raised her
hand to her eyes, and, as the maid shut the door to, and she heard the
swish of Lucy’s skirts, she felt like a nun who has left the world
and feels fold round her the familiar veils and the response to old
devotions. The cook whistled in the kitchen. She heard the click of the
typewriter. It was her life, and, bending her head over the hall table,
she bowed beneath the influence, felt blessed and purified, saying to
herself, as she took the pad with the telephone message on it, how
moments like this are buds on the tree of life, flowers of darkness
they are, she thought (as if some lovely rose had blossomed for her
eyes only); not for a moment did she believe in God; but all the
more, she thought, taking up the pad, must one repay in daily life to
servants, yes, to dogs and canaries, above all to Richard her husband,
who was the foundation of it--of the gay sounds, of the green lights,
of the cook even whistling, for Mrs. Walker was Irish and whistled
all day long--one must pay back from this secret deposit of exquisite